Death to America
by DM-sama
Summary: Innocent. Clueless. A mere child. Your heart breaks at the thought of him ever knowing the deaths wrought by his hand.


**Death To America**

There were few annoyances in life greater than glancing at a clock, for no contraption has ever seemed to move as slowly. You wonder for the twelfth time that night whether or not the thing was well and truly broken as you resolutely tear open the freshly baked bag of steaming popcorn and pour it into the bowl.

Just as you throw aside the empty bag, there's a loud knock on the door. Opening it reveals the overtly cheerful and beautiful young face of your missing friend, Little America. He beams at the sight of your face, and swoops in for a sloppy kiss on your cheek.

"Sorry I'm late!" he cries, marching into your house. "There was this tiny kitten perched in a tree, and I had to heroically save it from falling to its untimely demise!"

You lead him into the living room, noticing the movies he had tucked under his arm. All scary ghost movies, you were willing to bet. The tight smile on your friend's face as he places the movies next to your DVD player confirms your suspicions. He looks up at you, still radiating with glee.

You tell him to get started without you and that you'll be in the kitchen finishing preparations for the night. Leaving him with the remote, you venture into the kitchen to do exactly that, wondering what manner of cheesy horror flicks he had brought with him this time.

You hear the telltale sounds of the TV flickering to life as you pour some soda and get the popcorn ready. Suddenly, you hear someone gasp. You perk up, looking curiously into the dimmed living room where your friend stands, back to you, staring in rapture at something on the TV you couldn't see. Sounds of a brawl float towards you, and you figure it to be some sort of violent wrestling show. You return to setting up for the movie.

A few moments later you saunter into the living room cradling the popcorn buckets and the soda pop, and place them on the end table. You stand up and look to your friend, wondering why he hasn't started the movie yet, when you pause. Your friend's face was pale white with horror. He was completely still.

Wondering what could have caused such a terrible reaction, your heart palpitates when you hear the words of a solemn news reporter float towards you. "_American forces…bomb raids…deaths of hundreds—maybe thousands…_"

You had forgotten you had been watching the news channel earlier that afternoon. You had forgotten they were doing a live cover of the war-torn city on the other side of the world.

One horrible image after the next appeared on the screen, your friend transfixed; starving children without their mothers, dead bodies swinging from the rafters. A group of angry rioters stood in the clearing, chanting their hateful mantra and brandishing signs. You clap your hand over your mouth in horror, and chance a look at your friend's face. His beautiful blue eyes were wide with childish fear and confusion.

"Why are they doing that?" he asks, turning to you. You hastily look away. "Is it some kind of...of ceremony? What are they saying?"

You say you don't know. It's obvious he doesn't believe you. He grasps your shoulder and forces you to face him. You can feel him trembling, but still you don't meet his beautiful eyes. He asks you again, and you shake your head, pleading ignorance. _Please don't make me, _you say, trying to ignore the cruel words of the hateful television set. "_Mass destruction…starvation everywhere…violence…death…"_

"_Tell me_," he demands.

And so you do. Every word feels like a dagger. The mantra carries through the silence of the room, echoing loud and clear, its message understood. Tears pool in his eyes.

"We were supposed to be saving them," he murmured despondently. "I—I'm supposed to be the hero…"

You stare into his eyes, imploring him to understand. _It's not your fault_, you say. You hate the feel of the lie slipping past your lips. He starts to shake again. The image of the television screen shifts to the enraged rioters, chanting their mantra. They pull out a stained American flag, and burn it; their chant swelling in volume till it enveloped the room. The image of the burning flag reflects in his glasses as he watches, horror struck.

_Al mout li Amreeka! Al mout li Amreeka! Al mout li Amreeka! _

Sorrow gnawing at your core, you gently draw him close, stroking his dirty blonde hair tenderly as you whisper broken nothings into his ear. He collapses, crushing you to him, and weeps softly.

_Death to America! Death to America! Death to America!_

**~*O*~**

**Inspiration courtesy of the award winning **_**Argo **_**(excellent movie, I'd definitely recommend it)**_**. **_**When I saw the scene of the Iranians burning the American flag, the first thing that popped into my head was, "**_**Shit**_**, can't let Alfred see this." Haha. XD**

**This is quite easily my shortest story to date. I'm actually trying to stave off the urge to try and throw in a bunch of fluff to try and break 1,000. Alas, I don't feel the need to add to it. I'll probably take it and do a rewrite, but in third person (because I despise second-person, **_**completely **_**impractical for prose, but curiosity bid me to give it a shot), but for now, I'm content. Odds are I'll leave it as is.**

**Hope ya'll enjoyed! Leave a review~ Give Little America some love over here~**

**~DM-sama**


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